Headphones: An FFXII Fanfiction Playlist
by fluidstatic
Summary: Fifty mini-fics inspired by the first fifty tracks in my music library. SIX: Balthier and his beloved airships.
1. Agnus Dei

**Headphones: An FFXII Fanfiction Playlist**

_A/N: I got this idea from zestychicken2, who is in the process of writing 47 drabbles based off of the first 47 tracks on her iPod. I will be doing 50, because I am a Virgo rising and therefore am uncomfortable with awkward numbers, haha. Thanks, zestychicken2, for the jump-start._

_Please R&R these as you see fit._

**ONE**

Song: Agnus Dei

Artist: Rufus Wainwright

Album: Want Two

Rabanastre burneth.

Nabradia was a blot on the horizon, still smoking, when the Archadians came in low over the city and began to open fire. Ifrit showed no mercy; thousands of bodies burned under its onslaught, and Bergan laughed madly to hear them scream.

There was no-one to lead Dalmasca's men against the coup. Raminas dead, Heios Nabradia dead, Ronsenburg a traitor, and Azelas long gone, presumed dead, wandering through the desert.

Ashelia B'Nargin is huddled in bed, the curtains drawn, curled in a foetal ball among the sheets. They still smell like him. She may never leave this bed. She may never move. She might never breathe again.

Rasler. Rasler. Let it burn, let it rot, let them come, let them kill me.

Rasler.

Tilia knocks on the door softly.

"My Lady, I beg you, we must..."

Ashelia can only cover her ears with her arms and scream wordlessly at the top of her lungs. Even her dear nursemaid, frail and lovely and wise, will not be able to shoo away this nightmare. The madness of grief has come for the Lady Ashe, and she will never recover.

All dead. All dead, all lost, nothing to run from, nothing to run to, only smoke and flame and cypress coffins spread over the land like stones, thousands upon thousands of dead, faceless men that her father could no longer defend from the basilisk.

A sharper knock this time. Metal on wood rather than flesh. And then, swiftly, the door opens, and he is there. Faram, sweet mercy, my husband, a miracle ... But no, it is not Rasler, she realizes, almost too late; her lips are already parted, aching for a kiss, when she sees that the soldier before her is Azelas.

"My Lady..."

Sick with misery and fear and relief, Ashe collapses into his arms, too weak to think of decorum. Decorum, pfah. She is widowed and orphaned and naught but seventeen. She may well be struck dead for the shame and the sorrow of continuing to breathe. What is decorum to such a wretch?

"My Lady... The Archadians are coming for you. We must fly... Please, Princess."

She can only sob. He shakes her a little, bracingly, without apology.

"Please, Ashe. We must fly. I won't lose you. Not now!"

Resolute, Azelas plucks her from the bed and carries her, still in her widow's weeds, from the room. Tilia listens to them go, her sightless Bangaa's eyes swimming with pearly tears.

"Azelas... protect her..."

"As is my charge, Lady Tilia. Pray and keep watch. I shall return."

* * *

Tilia waits. She prays, she weeps and listens and curses the cannon fire.

Ashelia B'Nargin Dalmasca will never return.

* * *

Come dawn's first light, the city is in ashes. The survivors are wandering aimlessly, vacant-faced as the dead. Their mourning is piled upon mourning, their shame running thick and fast as the tears on their faces. Ashelia B'Nargin is dead, and with her the last glimmer of hope for a new Galtea.

The grieved whispers run like water through the city. The Lady Ashe jumped from the south spur of Garamsythe, drowned in the rush of sewer water. None will search for her body, and none will dare to say her name for more than a week, lest a cry of sorrow rise in every heart within reach of ears.

Rabanastre falleth.


	2. Makrotatos

**TWO**

_Subject: Penelo_

_Song: Makrotatos_

_Artist: Ensemble Melpomen_

_Album: Melpomen: Ancient Greek Music_

It was the party's second night along the Phon coast. All had eaten a fine supper of Pirahna and sweet coconut, and were stretched around the bonfire, contemplating the shoreline. All necessary chores had been done before the meal, so there was no broken weaponry to mend, no armor to polish, no loot to take inventory of.

"I never thought I'd say it in a place like this, but I'm kind of bored," Vaan said, picking at a piece of seaweed that had been half-buried in sand.

"A night this clear and mild does beg a little entertainment," Balthier said, tossing a handful of dune grass into the flames and watching it spark. "But I doubt any of you want to hear me sing."

Fran took her helm from her head and shivered her ears, letting the salt air toss the loose curls of her hair around her face. "I have a request," she said, a smile dancing in her eyes.

Basch turned to her with interest. "We would hear it, then, Fran."

Fran turned to Penelo, rotating her ears in friendly interest toward the girl.

"You will dance for us? While we have no flutes, a proper rhythm is easy enough to create, and though you speak of the art, we have never seen you dance."

Vaan grinned. "That's a great idea. Come on, Pen, it'll be fun."

Penelo tugged at her braided pigtails shyly. "I'd love to, but... well, I haven't danced in a long time, and..."

Vaan pinched her. "Pretend it's my naming-day. You always dance on naming-days."

Penelo tugged one pigtail and blushed. "I don't know, Vaan..."

Balthier sat up and gave Penelo what could only be described as a winning smile.

"What a lovely thought, Fran. Come then, darling, how do you know it isn't my naming-day? Do it for me, eh?"

The pirate always knew how to knock Penelo off track; from the moment they met, his handkerchief thrust into her hand and a tender gleam in his eyes, she'd never been able to refuse a request when he made it, no matter how innocent... and he had called her darling, besides. So, she took off her boots and got to her feet, blushing.

"Only because Fran... and... well, not that I... Okay."

Vaan straightened up expectantly. "Great! Okay, give me a beat, Pen."

"Um... Something about this fast would be nice," Penelo said, clapping her hands in a crisp downbeat. Vaan echoed it back at her, and Ashe joined him.

To Vaan's delight, Basch began to tap out a simple rhythm underneath the main tempo on his breastplate. Fran picked up a scrap of driftwood and took up a counter-rhythm on her helm, and Balthier tossed a handful of shot into an empty potion bottle to make a shaker.

When they'd all found the beat Penelo smiled shyly, raised one arm in a dancer's salute, and began to sway.

Kicking up sugar-fine sand, she started with a simple, tight four step, her wrists bent gracefully around her face. When Fran threw a variation into the rhythm, she smiled and extended her arms, adding an extra flourish to her feet. Her hips swayed, her shoulders straightened, and the smile faded from her face as she began to concentrate in earnest on the beat, following it with her hands in a graceful arc.

To Vaan, she became a bird. First a sparrow and then a hawk and back again, she moved with a grace he'd never seen in anyone else. She was so pretty when she concentrated on a beat; her brow furrowed in concentration, her lips slightly parted in panting breath, her fingers bent stiffly in a traditional Dalmascan festival dancer's salute. When he whooped appreciatively at her footwork, she flashed him a smile and tossed her head.

Ashe marveled at the girl's quick feet and cheerful concentration. Her resilience was astonishing, after all she had seen and lost. Her family killed in the war, and countless fiends slicing new scars into her body as their journey wore on. How selfless she was, and so sparkling in her joy. When Penelo turned to the princess and bowed a formal Dalmascan salute to her, Ashe smiled and blew the dancer a sisterly kiss in return.

Fran and Basch saw the ferocity in Penelo's movements and smiled at each other knowingly. A dancer is beautiful but she is also powerful, and they had seen the slip of an orphan fight with strength and bravery that only continued in her dancing. They nodded to each other and shifted the beat up in tempo, letting it take on an urgency. Penelo flashed them a fierce, satisfied look – _I'm not scared, this battle is mine_ – and matched the tempo with her feet.

Balthier grinned broadly. Dancing is not unlike courting; both hold the rhythm of suggestion, the intricacy of emotion, the silent undercurrent of meaning in speech and music. _Even an innocent like Penelo has her desires, _he mused, adding a little shivering flourish to the beat with the potion bottle, tapping the side of it with one of his enamel-ringed fingers. _When she falls in love someday, the man to catch her eye will be lucky indeed. _When Penelo turned toward him and cocked her hip, he winked; she rolled her shoulder flirtatiously and kicked up her heels, a spark of something playful – and perhaps a little carnal – in her wide blue eyes.

When she tired, Penelo gave a little giggling shriek, blushed, and began to wheel in a circle, waving her hands to coax the beat higher. Vaan laughed and hiked up the tempo even farther, and Fran beat out a complicated flourish on her helm; Balthier laughed brightly, gave a sharp whistle, and counted them all out to the finish.

"Four... three ... two... and ..."

Sweating and giggling with adrenaline, Penelo threw herself into a low bow, and her companions cheered.


	3. This Ain't A Scene

**THREE**

_Song: This Ain't A Scene (It's An Arms Race)_

_Artist: Fallout Boy_

_Subject: Balthier & Fran_

"I don't know why we bother trying to sneak in. One glimpse of your perfect legs and they're upon us like flies on honey. We'd have been better off turning ourselves in directly."

"It's the principle of the thing, Balthier," Fran murmured. "Besides which, we haven't been identified..."

She twitched her ears left and right a few times, listening, and the corner of her mouth twitched.

"It would seem we are the subject of a fair bit of conversation, however."

"Fascinating souls such as ourselves have that effect, quite naturally," Balthier murmured, and wandered away from her, a look of cool disinterest in his eyes.

Immediately, he began to count. Several women in the room were giving him bedroom eyes; about ten of them were wearing Nabradian emeralds of considerable size. Alas, the majority of these were already grasping the arms of their respective paramours, but three were standing quite alone, watching him pace. He made deliberate eye contact with each of the three as he passed.

The pale pretty Bhujerban in a violet gown quickly blushed and turned away. He didn't have time to draw out a shy coquette, and quickly dismissed her in his mind. The tawny-skinned Rozarrian with large black eyes tossed her head and laughed when he smiled at her; she was clearly inebriated and would draw considerable attention to herself should he approach.

It would be the third, then, a lovely blonde with charming curves, who would be graced with his company.

As he was about to cross the room to greet her, he saw Fran twitch one of her ears in his peripheral vision. When he turned, he nearly laughed at the sight.

A stocky, red-faced man of about thirty had approached the viera. He was visibly drunk, and grinning foolishly at her.

"What brings a Viera to Rabanastre?"

She blinked mutely.

"Why don't you come with me? I'll show you around. You new in the city? I haven't seen you before..."

She did not move; Balthier stepped toward them, forcing the sparkle of amusement out of his eyes. He gave a little polite half-bow and addressed Fran directly, in Vieran.

"_D'n tr'asje nin'rath?" _

_Is he bothering you terribly? _

She blinked at him in false surprise, as though she'd never seen him before.

"_Eih,"_ she rejoined, and almost smiled. _"D'n sr'nic liis, a'veth. Bl'twr fazs nas, kior e' nis. Rin vath."_

_Yes, he blocks my retreat, you see. There are a dozen imperials in here, watching for you. We need to leave._

Balthier laughed, as if she'd just said something terribly clever. _"Eih, a'qr niis."_

"_Yes, what luck."_

The man between them backed up a step, beet-red and wide eyed.

"Um... Apologies. I..."

Balthier turned to Fran and gestured to the man. _"D'n ka'aban? Twr'leh."_

_He's frightened of me? Lovely._

She nodded politely to the man and turned for the door; Balthier followed behind, smiling pleasantly.

As soon as they were safely in the courtyard, he began to curse a streak.

"Damn my luck to the fires of hell. How many Imperials did you say you saw?"

"A rough dozen, by my count."

"Are the south and east exits still clear?"

She nodded.

"It's quite the shame. I was hoping to procure a rather lovely bauble for you by the evening's end."

"Another emerald would be of no use to me, Ffamran."

He clucked his tongue. "So you say... but oh, how they gleam on your skin, my heart."

She shook her head. "Ever thinking of your own aesthetic, are you not?"

"My vanity consumes all," he smirked. "Even my leading lady must shine in the dark."

She smiled mutely.

When the shout rang out behind them – "There they are! Cut them off!" – They broke into a sprint, and leapt over the wall into the night, where the ship lay cloaked and waiting for their return.


	4. Hush, Hush, Hush

**Four**

Song: Hush, Hush, Hush

Artist: Paula Cole & Peter Gabriel

Subject: Ashe/Rasler, Ashe & Raminas

_--_

_Oh maybe next time you'll be Henry VIII_

_Wake up tomorrow Alexander the Great_

_Open your eyes in a new life again_

_Oh maybe next time you'll begin with a chance_

_Hush, Hush, Hush_

_--_

Raminas and Rasler lay side by side in fine cypress caskets, their wounds carefully concealed in heavy velveteen and brocade. So handsome, father and beloved, sleeping in these dreadful beds. Ashelia B'Nargin knelt between the caskets and accepted the baptism of the priest, a prayer for her protection and blessing to shield her from sorrow. Her heavy blackwork corset constricted her breath, and her painfully beating heart felt as though it might tear through the boning.

She was the only light Dalmasca had left, and she would not weep.

As the priest spoke a blessing over her father's body, Ashe slipped a Galbana lily into his loosely folded hands, pressed her lips to the cool wooden casket, and closed her eyes. In her mind's eye she saw her Lord Father's fingers, steepled in contemplation, folded in prayer. She watched him press his signet into wax, thought of the way he stroked her cheek with the pad of his thumb as greeting and farewell. She felt his touch, a warm broad hand laid on her head in benediction, or folded over hers in bid to comfort her. It was said her father held his hand over all Dalmasca, but now his touch would never be felt again.

"Faram," she whispered, and she turned her back on the casket as the priest closed the lid.

She would _not_ weep.

As the priest began the blessing once more, this time for her prince, Ashe heard Rasler's voice, quiet and warm with affection, speaking their wedding vows; she heard his laughter, his quiet breathing, and her name whispered in her ear. His voice had risen over the throng of Dalmasca's army, calling them into war, and it was his voice that would haunt her until she was cold in the earth beside him.

As Ashe laid a second Galbana lily over her husband's heart, her eyes welled over. Then she was sobbing, and the sound rose to a wail before she could halt it. She tried to turn her back on the casket and retreat from the altar, but she faltered and fell, keening before the terrible specter of Heth, the god who had demanded the souls of these men and left her behind to wither and fade in their absence.

Distantly she felt Azelas lift her into his arms, and heard his voice in her ear.

"_My Lady. My Lady..."_

Far beyond the palace, in the blackness of Nalbina's oubliette, Captain Basch Fon Ronsenburg lay bleeding. It was his name Ashe cursed, screaming, as she was carried from the cathedral.


	5. Glass

**Five**

Song: Glass

Artist: Ingrid Michaelson

Subject: Balthier/Penelo

--

_Rolled around on kitchen floors_

_Tied my tongue in pretty bows with yours_

_And now we pass and just like glass_

_I see through you_

_You see through me like I'm not there_

--

"Darling... darling. Please don't cry."

Penelo is lying on Balthier's bunk, sobbing. Balthier kneels there beside her utterly unruffled, immaculate. The tips of his fingers brush over her mouth, his eyes bright with concern. She can practically taste his fingerprints. His voice is like a mint candy, sweet and cool, but his body is radiating heat. She is furious with herself, practically unhinged with...

"I love you... I..."

"Darling, please, don't say that. You don't know what you're..."

He shifts closer to him, and his golden eyes squeeze closed in frustration and regret. The expression makes him look younger, deceptively younger; it arouses her hopes and infuriates her. She scrambles away from him, presses her back to the cabin wall and curls tighter into herself.

"Stop it, Balthier!"

_He's just trying to get me to stop crying... But why doesn't he understand?_

She can't stop thinking about that beautiful, terrible, frenzied tumble on the galley floor. The tile under her back, his hands warm on her skin in places she barely knew she had. He knows everything about her now, more than even she does, and she knows too much about him, in return; the web of scars on his back that he hides behind crisp linen, and his breath, sweet and sharp like fresh licorice, and how his voice goes soft around the edges when he's whispering – she'd never heard him whisper before – and that strange heady smell that envelops her and tugs at her belly when he...

_Penelo, you idiot!_

She twists toward him suddenly, furious with herself, and grasps for his sleeves, pulling him toward her, reaching for one more forbidden kiss. He leans in without resistance, and for a moment she thinks she's won. But just as she's an inch from his mouth he draws her close to him, as if he were consoling his little sister, and lays his hand to the back of her head.

"I will _not _make the same mistake twice. I've said it a dozen times if I've said it once. Your virtue wasn't mine to take. I assumed that Vaan... It was stupid of me. I see that now. But I didn't _know, _Penelo."

She pushes back, infuriated, fleetingly envious of Fran's long, sharp fingernails. "You didn't _know? _You know everything. You always _know."_

When she woke up sweating and sobbing one night, plagued with nightmares of Ba'Gamnan, she went to him first for a reason; he knew that. He knew she loved him; he knew that Vaan couldn't fill these gaps in her mind, that she was lost to him the moment he bowed to her, his handkerchief held to his chest.

_I shall wear it close to my heart._

Balthier leans forward, trying to reason with her. "Darling..."

"_Stop calling me that!"_

He exhales, bows his head. "Penelo."

"I know things too. I know you don't love me back. I know you're not going to do it again, and you know what? That hurts.Knowing _hurts."_

Something twitches in his face, an odd tic of regret she's never seen. His jaw is set, his eyes are closed. He'll never look at her _that way_ again; she can see him pushing his fleeting desire for her out his mind. How many times has he done this? How many girls has he just _erased _like this?

He opens his eyes and blinks, his face rearranged in a beautiful, awful mask of brotherly understanding. "Penelo, I..."

"Forget it."

She pushes past him and leaves the room, because it's clear he already has.


	6. Mr Mastodon Farm

_A/N: Sorry for dropping off the face of the planet. The real world's had a hold on me lately. I'll be publishing more frequently soon._

**SIX**

_Song: Mr. Mastodon Farm_

_Artist: Cake_

_Subject: Balthier (Ffamran)_

_--_

_I said birds fall from the window ledge above mine,__  
__Then they flap their wings at the last second.__  
__But unless I get up,__  
__Walk across the room__  
__And peer down below,__  
__I won't see their last second curves__  
__Toward a horizontal flight.__  
__All these birds just falling _

_from the ledge like stones._

_--_

_(Firamoon, 686 OV)_

_Swoosh._

The little boy ran to the window and pressed his small pale hands to the glass.

"The ship, Pescan! It's going t'crash! Hurry!"

The middle Bunansa son hurried to the window, eyes wide, but when he glanced over the rail to the pass below he began to laugh.

Ffamran's golden eyes filled with tears. "It's not funny! That poor, pretty ship."

Pescan smiled indulgently and ruffled the boy's hair.

"You're only four and you like airships already? Won't Father be pleased... Come on, don't be daft. Look..."

He pointed, and Ffamran saw that the fragile-looking little cruiser had risen miraculously from its catastrophically fast vertical dive, sweeping off like a swallow into the bustle of traffic beyond. His eyes widened in awe as he peeked through his long dark lashes up at his elder brother.

"...But it was going so fast."

Lanas Bunansa looked up from his book and smiled calmly.

"That's how takeoff works for the really little airships, pip. I'd really rather they just dropped politely into line, civilized-like, but I guess some can't do it." He shrugged. "Dunno, really. Ask Father about it."

Ffamran nodded at his eldest brother. Lanas was the smartest boy in the world, a whole twelve years old. Ffamran never doubted him.

"You're only four more than me, you know," he said mildly to Pescan, as an afterthought.

"You sound just like Father when you do that, pip," Lanas said, chuckling. Pescan pulled a face.

"Don't act like you know everything, Lanas. It's tiresome."

"Tiresome?" Lanas grinned. "Picked up that word from Father, did you?"

Ffamran ignored his brothers; once they got started on each other they were likely to bicker like this all afternoon. Determined to figure out the airships' secrets, he turned and pressed his hands to the fifty-eighth floor window once again and waited for the next miracle.

--

_(Twelve Years Later)_

Ffamran clutched his open dossier and walked along impatiently behind his father, distracted. Cid was talking shop, as usual. The man never spoke of anything but airships anymore, but then, Ffamran mused, such was the hazard of becoming Judge Magister. They never spoke of anything other than engineering and tactics.

"This line of fighters will be quicker, sleeker than the last model. Their cannons are side-mounted, so they'll be less likely to nose up or down with the impact of firing at close range."

_Swoosh._

Judge Magister Bunansa nodded vaguely, squinting out the side window at the traffic. How he hated that noise, and its promise of catastrophe that would never come. And now he was once again staring out the window, waiting for that little business-class cruiser to appear among the taxis across the thoroughfare. A nasty habit, but he couldn't seem to shake it.

"Pay attention, Ffamran."

The cruiser surfaced in the lower lane, moving at a languid Sunday-afternoon pace, unscathed.

"Yes, sir," Ffamran murmured, turning away from the window and ticking a little note on his dossier in effort to appear busy.

When he had his own ship, he'd have better tact than to terrify the launch queue waiting below with such catastrophic stunts.

--

_(Three years later)_

_Swoosh._

"Bloody buggery hell," Balthier snapped, turning sharply away from the controls to look, saucer-eyed, out the windscreen.

Fran glanced up from the map. She couldn't help but notice he'd gone a little white. "What is it?"

He didn't respond, holding unnaturally still with his eyes fixed on the departure queue beyond the aerodrome's hangar. When the trim little leisure craft surfaced, moving at a self-confident clip through the lumbering commercial craft, the pirate exhaled in exasperation.

"I'll never get used to watching the upper line of the hangar make that drop," he muttered, and kicked up the Strahl's engines.

When the systems check cleared, the ship rose smoothly, cloaked, and unfolded her articulated wings. Balthier whistled a little tune to himself as the ship slipped politely into the departure queue, floating downward placidly through the near-suicidal nosedives of her peers.

"There we are," Balthier murmured. "Dropping politely into line, like properly civilized criminals."

Fran flicked one ear in amusement and keyed in a course for Nabradia. "Your brother would be pleased... Pip."

"Call me that again and I'll see you shot, my heart," he replied mildly, and opened the throttle.


End file.
